Exclamations and embraces as they arrive.
‘Ouch.’ Tomi yelps as my mother pinches his cheeks. Zsuzsi giggles as she successfully avoids the same treatment from Rudi Farkas.
‘Yuk,’ I whisper to Zsuzsi. I have not managed to duck the wet kiss planted on my nose by Klára Kunz.
‘Yuk,’ says Zsuzsi who has not avoided a kiss on the mouth from Stephen Lucas.
My mother has prepared thick, crusty bread with salami; körözöt and pickled cucumber; casino eggs and potato salad; all the cold cuts and continental sausages she is able to find at Fuller Fulton’s, Wellington’s only delicatessen; torte; kuglof; Strudel; krémes; and rum balls and lemon tea or coffee to wash it down.
‘Did you hear the one about the two old men – one Jewish, the other a goy – who were travelling from Minsk to Pinsk?’ says Sándor Kunz.
My mother shakes her head.
‘They were sharing a compartment on the train and the goy noticed that every few minutes his companion tossed salt over his left shoulder. After the goy had watched this performance for a while, he asked the Jew why he was doing this.
‘“To keep away the elephants,” the Jew replied.
‘“Typical Jewish superstition,” said the goy.
‘“Why do you say that?” said the Jew. “Do you see any elephants?”’
The visitors sip their glasses of lemon tea and coffee, and sample the food enthusiastically.
‘There has to be a trial and a sentence. That is the correct way to deal with even the Eichmanns of this world,’ my father says.
‘No, that is too good for the monster,’ argues Klára Kunz. ‘They should just go ahead and kill him.’
Yesterday the foreman had broken the news to my father that they no longer needed him as storeman at Philips Electrical.
‘They don’t like it that I do not yet know the names of all the little parts. But I’m not worried. There are plenty of jobs in this country.’
‘The Kiwis are lazy, they don’t work hard like we do,’ Paul Szép tells my father. His lips are smeared with körözöt.
‘’Diculous,’ says Klára Kunz. She puts an arm round my father. ‘’Diculous, this English language is ’diculous.’
‘When I lost my job,’ says Sándor Kunz, ‘the foreman said, “I’m so sorry, so sorry, we will just have to let you go.” He sounded very very sorry. This was when I was a labourer and had to work on the roof. I was scared of falling off. Someone had to come up and help me down.’
‘This is a lucky country, Gyuri,’ Rudi Farkas says. ‘You’ll find another job soon.’
‘For me, this country is a kind of grave,’ Paul Szép says, reaching for more bread with körözöt. His voice is louder than anyone else’s in the room.
‘At least a healthy kind of grave.’ Klára turns to her son. ‘Come here, Tomi, play us something on your violin.’
‘I don’t want to,’ Tomi says.
‘We don’t spend good money on your lessons so that you refuse to play when we ask.’ His father’s face is turning red.
‘Come on, Tomi, get your music,’ says his mother.
When poor Tomi is at last allowed to stop playing, Sándor takes over on the piano and the adults start to dance. We children join in. I waltz with my father, Zsuzsi is in her father’s arms and Joe is trying to pull his mother on to her feet.
My mother starts to dance with Paul Szép but sits down again quickly.
‘That man can’t keep his hands to himself,’ my father remarks to no one in particular.
Stephen Lucas asks her to dance, but she shakes her head.
‘What does it matter about not getting to America? At least we have the children. Look at them. How quickly they are growing into New Zealanders, speaking English so fluently and doing well at school,’ says Sándor.
‘Yes,’ my father says. ‘After all, it is no small thing to have managed to buy a house already.’ He sighs. ‘But New Zealand is such a strange country. Will it ever feel like home?’
‘Ah, you pessimist, you worrier.’ Klára is pulling him onto his feet. ‘Come and dance with me again and forget about your troubles for tonight at least.’
‘I did not cry when we said goodbye,’ my grandmother says when we meet her at the airport, ‘although I was afraid that I might never see you again. Who would have thought that before long I would find myself at the other end of the world?’
‘Why is Hungary not the end of the world? Why is New Zealand the end?’ I joke with her.
She does not laugh.
My mother had written to my grandmother: ‘New Zealand is not a bad little country. We miss you. We want you here and need your help. We both have to work. There is no one to look after Eva.’
When the letter saying Judit had permission to leave Budapest arrived, my mother looked relieved, my father resigned.
My grandmother did not cry when we said goodbye, but cries when she sees the wooden houses on the hillside. She cries harder when she sees our house. When we take her into town, she asks where the city is. When we go with her to the synagogue, she asks how she can find peace, let alone God, in a wooden shed.
Tears roll down my grandmother’s cheeks as she sits by the window in the lounge. She watches the rain beating against the panes and the wind rattling the blinds. Her pain reminds me of leaving Zsuzsi. How lucky I am that Zsuzsi and I are united again. I put my arms around my grandmother and she tells me that the grey world outside is like the misery she feels inside. I get her a hanky and wipe away her tears, for she cannot be bothered to wipe them away herself.
The only time my grandmother seems happy is when she listens to the radio. We only have one. I give up Life with Dexter so that she can listen to the classical station. I do not mind because more than anything I want her to start to be happy in our new country.
‘Break, broke, broken,’ I repeat. ‘Now you say it.’
My grandmother is not listening.
‘Remember, Eva, the synagogue on Dohány Street? How beautiful it was.’
‘There are oranges and bananas here. You can buy them in all the shops.’
‘All the empty greenery. Not a person in sight. What do they do all day? Why doesn’t it stop raining? Remember, Eva, the summers we have at home? One hot day after another, from morning till night, no wind, no rain.’
‘My teacher’s name is Mr Donald. My friend is called Mary…’
‘I should have known better than to come. Everything is different here. Why, oh why, did I let Kati persuade me?’
‘We paint and do linocuts at school. It’s more fun than reading or arithmetic.’
She gives me a pitying look as if to say, what will become of the poor child in this primitive country?
‘Listen to me, Eva,’ she says, before I can explain what linocuts are. ‘In our schools, children did more than just play all the time. By the time your mother was eleven, she had already read The Count of Monte Cristo in French and Buddenbrooks in German.’ My grandmother gave a long sigh. ‘What high hopes Imre and I had for our beautiful and clever daughter. Kati had piano lessons every morning before school and a tutor after school to teach her Latin. There were also ballet lessons on Saturdays and sometimes riding lessons too. But Sundays were our favourite days. They were for swimming and cycling with friends in the park in summer and for skating in the winter. The best Sundays of all were at Lake Balaton when Imre was able to join us.’
I’m half asleep stretched out on the sofa, as she tells me about one such Sunday:
‘Very early morning. The sun just rising over the water. Drops of dew hanging from the lilac over the patio. After breakfast, Kati could hardly keep still while I finished plaiting her long, thick hair.
‘“I want to have short hair; please let me. Why don’t you let me?”
‘“Why would you want to cut off your beautiful hair?” I said.
‘“Where’s my little girl?” said Imre. “Is she ready?”
‘Into the boat went melon, bread, somet
hing to drink and all the morning newspapers. Kati put in Madam Bovary (the Hungarian translation), just in case there was a bit of time left over. At the last minute, Imre packed the fishing rod.
‘“Take your cardigan, Kati,” I told her. “Remember, it gets chilly on the water. And hurry up. We haven’t got long. Aunt Lotte is coming for lunch.”
‘“I could never understand why Kati and Imre wanted to spend so much time stuck in a little boat. I always worried: we might lose an oar, we might lose our way, the wind might rise.
‘“Not that one,” Kati said when I brought out a cardigan for her to take. “I want the new one, the one I got for my birthday.”
‘“No, not in the boat; it will only get dirty.”
‘“Please, please,” said Kati.
‘“Get her what she wants, stop fussing, Judit,” said Imre, taking Kati’s side as usual.
‘Kati stroked the soft wool as she put on her new cardigan. It was green and blue, like the lake, with five shiny buttons.
‘As we set off, Imre sang in his heartiest voice as he rowed:
Gaudeamus igitur
Iuvenes dum sumus.
‘Kati dangled her fingers in the water. It was warm for July. She hung the rod over the side; all three of us half-hoped the fish would be clever enough to keep away.
‘“Your turn to row,” said her father. He unfolded one of the newspapers and settled down to read with a deep sigh. I could see the headlines as Kati heaved and pulled the oars through the water. They were about a Herr Hitler who had come to power in Germany.
‘“Look, look,” said Kati.
‘Something was happening to the rod. Imre put down the paper and helped her haul in the catch.
‘“Oh no, the poor thing,” said Kati, looking with dismay at the hook caught in the gaping mouth.
‘Imre put his hand right inside, eased out the hook and threw the fish back into the lake.
‘It was so hot on the grassy bank when we cut open our melon. Kati could spit the seeds even further than Imre. He sighed again as he turned the pages of yet another newspaper.
‘“We have to go home soon,” I said. “I have to see to the lunch.”
‘Back at the house, Kati said. “Where’s my cardigan?”
‘It had been left behind on the grassy bank where we ate our melon.
‘I brushed Kati’s hair hard to get the tangles out.
‘“Stop it, you’re hurting me.”
‘I was furious about the cardigan and about the melon stain on her white skirt.
‘Kati tried not to cry about the lost cardigan with shiny buttons.
‘“My darling Kati,” her father said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I hope and pray that this loss turns out to be the worst misfortune you will have to face in a long and happy life.”
‘He was looking out at the lake as he spoke. The sun was high in the pale sky.
‘“Lotte will be here soon,” I said, pulling down the shades.
“‘I’m going to get the afternoon papers,” Imre said, leaving Kati and me alone in the darkened room.’
My grandmother sighs again: ‘Sixty-five is too old to dig up roots, to give up security, to make a new start.’
‘On Sunday we are going to Paekakariki beach. The waves there are bigger than at the Gellért Baths.’ Wide awake now, I’m shouting to her about the waves; but she’s not listening.
‘Imre had a fur importing business and travelled all over Europe,’ my grandmother continues. ‘He came back to Budapest in mid-August and told Kati and me to pack. “I have to take my little girl to Venice. She must see Venice. There is going to be a war. We have to go to Venice in case it is destroyed.”
‘During the last week in August, we had a last holiday together in Venice. When we got back, war broke out.
‘Just before the Germans occupied Budapest, there was a rumour that all the girls who were not married would be taken as prostitutes for the army. The boys quickly married girls they hardly knew. This is how Kati married your father. She was just twenty. Her new husband was twenty-two. A week later, he was deported with the others to the Soviet Union.’
There is a photo of us in the album, arms around each other, laughing, a bit drunk: I’m there between my parents, Sándor and Klára Kunz with Tomi, Gábor and Maria Ranki with Zsuzsi, Rudi and Vera Farkas with Joe, and Stephen Lucas. It is New Year’s Eve, our second in New Zealand.
I used to believe that this group of people (the circle, as they called themselves) were my family, like the aunts, uncles and cousins that the other children at school had. Closest to my parents were the Kunzes. On Klára’s arm was a number. When she saw me looking at it one day, Klára said, ‘At the flick of one finger, you could have gone up the chimney, as we called it. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
Sándor had an operation to remove his number. When Klára starts to talk about the past, he interrupts: ‘And anyway it was a long time ago, and now we are here in this beautiful country.’
Klára and Sándor’s first son died in the war.
As for the Ranki family, our neighbours in Budapest, Gábor was married before the war and had a son. Gábor and his wife had him baptised hoping that this would keep him safe. But one day Gábor’s wife and son were taken away. Maria, Gábor’s second wife, is not Jewish. Zsuzsi is his second child.
Vera and Rudi Farkas also had a child before the war. He was hidden by a non-Jewish family. Because the Arrow Cross pulled down boys’ pants to see if they were circumcised, they dressed him as a girl. But it did not help.
When my father and his cousin Tibi were deported by the Germans, they had to march in a blizzard in Russia. The blizzard was severe, and they didn’t have enough warm clothes. They had been on the move for several days. They were hungry and had dysentery.
About the third or fourth day, Tibi sat down in the snow and said that he could not keep going. He told my father to go on without him. Gyuri helped him to his feet, gave him the last of his bread, half-carried him for a few kilometres, until he again collapsed.
‘There is no point,’ he said. ‘I can’t do it.’
Gyuri tried urging him, but Tibi simply closed his eyes and went to sleep. In the freezing conditions, this was fatal. He stayed with Tibi until he died and then continued to march.
As it turned out, the camp was not much further away. When he got there, he was given another piece of bread and a mouthful or two of lukewarm soup. In a few weeks’ time, the camp was liberated. If Tibi had only kept going, he might also have been saved.
‘So, Eva,’ my father says, ‘you do not nave to be especially strong or brave or good or clever or God-fearing to survive. You just have to be able to keep going. Then at least you have a chance.’
‘How come you were able to keep going?’ I ask.
‘I wanted to get back to Kati – to your mother – as quickly as possible. She was having a baby, you see. I wanted to get back to her and the baby.’
‘And the baby was me,’ I guess.
‘No, not you, your brother. Kati lost the baby, a boy. It was not till after the war that you were born.’
Tomi, Zsuzsi, Joe and I are our parents’ replacement children. We know how precious we are.
Douglas was the youngest chemistry professor they had ever had at the university. There was nothing he would not try; there was nothing he could not fix; there was nothing that worried him. This was so reassuring I had lustful thoughts just holding his hand.
1 November 1969
First time with Douglas was as good as with William, though he didn’t look as beautiful without his clothes – not as well proportioned and narrow-hipped. He wore bright red underpants. Ugh! But he was tender afterwards and didn’t rush off to get dressed. He said he felt responsible for me now that I was a part of him. William was a mistake, the baby that didn’t happen also a mistake. I’m so good at forgetting that I have just about forgotten William and the baby.
22 November
I w
as with D every day this week. The more we are together, the more I want to be. We spent an afternoon on a grassy hilltop overlooking Scorching Bay. Afterwards, when we were driving away, D said: ‘I was really happy up there with you.’ I love him for saying that.
29 December
Last Thursday we made love and it was much easier now that I’m on the pill. We could stay joined afterwards and lay together on the bed. I ran my fingers all the way down his body. We both have little white patches on our bottoms where the sun hasn’t reached.
3 February
Douglas phones at 8 every morning. This morning Mary got to the phone first. She gabbled on and on and wouldn’t get off. I lay on my bed praying for her to get off the phone so Douglas could ring. At last, she hung up. Straightaway the phone rang. I rushed to answer. It was my mother. When at last I put the phone down I went back to bed and waited and waited for it to ring again. It wasn’t till 10 that it rang. It was Douglas.
When Douglas asked me to marry him, I said ‘yes’ with relief. At least he looked Jewish. My parents might see this as a good sign.
‘What religion is he?’ my mother asked.
‘Nothing. No religion.’
‘Do you love him?’ my father asked.
‘Yes.’
Silence. I wasn’t going to apologise.
‘Enough to marry him?’ my mother asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Tell her she cannot do this to us.’ My fathers voice was full of pleading.
My mother shook her head.
‘More than us, do you love him more than us?’ my father asked.
Douglas seemed a modest man, despite all his achievements and his cleverness. I did not think this was innate goodness. As I gradually discovered, in his heart of hearts he lacked confidence, as I did. Was that why he could be interested in me? I didn’t care; I didn’t think it mattered.
Replacement Girl Page 4